Dagger
by Queen of the Mockingjays
Summary: Clove's thoughts before the gong rings. Based on 'The Dagger Speech,' by William Shakespeare. One-shot. (I do not own Macbeth, or The Dagger Speech, or The Hunger Games. Rated T cuz its the Hunger Games.)


**Why hello, lovelies! **

**Thanks for checking out this story! :D**

**I'm supposed to be reading Shakespeare for English class, so I've decided to write this story instead, cuz why not? It's basically Clove's thoughts before the gong rings. Based on the Dagger speech from Macbeth (even tho we're supposed to be reading Hamlet.)**

* * *

_Is this a dagger which I see before me,_

_The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee_.

* * *

A single throwing dagger sits directly in front of my pedestal, its hilt facing myself, the blade pointing directly towards the Cornucopia.

The Cornucopia.

Where all the weapons and supplies were stored. Where most blood would be shed.

I'd be the first person to admit to taking no pleasure in spilling others blood. But when it came down to it, I valued my life more than anothers. I may take no pride in shedding blood. But I'd do it countless times to if it meant saving my own life.

_You volunteered for this._

The thought itches at the back of my mind. In District Two, it wasn't only the glory, the riches, the pride, that many believed we volunteered for. We weren't all arrogant fools.

In District Two, it was a District filled to the brim with citizens. Nobody wants to die, and just be forgotten. You want to do something great before you expire. If you win, you're given everything. A place in history. Adoring fans. Endless riches. Fame. Power.

And if you happen to die, it's considered one of the most honorable ways to go. Regardless, people will still remember you. And if I need to slay every damn tribute in this arena, then what will be the difference? We're all here to die. Everyone was born to die. Why not at my hand? Why not now?

If I was going to die, I wasn't going to die forgotten. They'll play these games over again, showing trainees what to do, how to win. Sure enough, I'll be the first one they take notes on. If I am a victor, then the trainees study what decisions I've made during these games, how I've killed, what strategy I've used.

History is to be made in this next minute.

* * *

_I have thee not, and yet I see thee still._  
_Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible _  
_To feeling as to sight? or art thou but _  
_A dagger of the mind, a false creation,_

* * *

The dagger still lays in front of me, just mere inches away from my grasp. The way it's angled, the way the sun hits it perfectly, just makes me more eager.

_It's mine._

_'Do it' _a troubling thought ripples through my skull. _Grab it. Show them. You aren't another useless tribute, you're a victor._

_It won't matter in the end, Clove. Grab it._

"No," a hushed, wayward sound emits from the back of my throat. _Wait. You could afford to wait. Just for a few more seconds._

I give a curt nod, before scanning the arena, planning my actions. Everything would need to be planned out perfectly. Every move, every kill. It needed to be precise, and everything must go without flaw. Turning my head slightly to my right, I find the cowering girl from District Three, who inhales and exhales deeply, who seems to be trying to frantically devise a plan in the remaining time we have.

Claribel.

It was unfortunate that she wouldn't live long enough to form her plot.

Inwardly, I give myself a hard pinch on the shoulder, a method of discipline the trainers would use on us if we misbehaved.

_What are you thinking? How are you thinking?_

The truth is, I'm not. Imagining all the chaos about to unfold, my future victory, I haven't been thinking.

_You don't know her. Perhaps she could put up a fight. Don't get arrogant, Clove. That may be your downfall._

_But the dagger, it's there. It's there for me. It's there for me to kill._

I glance back at the weapon, and to my surprise, it seems as if it's...fading. Like it's growing more and more faint, for some odd reason.

"No," I find another whisper, yet this one much more audible, crawling up my throat, and escaping through parted lips.

_No..._

_This can't be real. What is it? Where is it?_

* * *

_Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? _

_I see thee yet, in form as palpable_  
_As this which now I draw. _  
_Thou marshall'st__ me the way that I was goin_g;

* * *

It's there. Sitting before me, waiting to be grasped.

_No, Clove. It's simply your imagination. Your urge. Your eagerness. Wait._

But it's there. It's there for me.

_Your imagination._

No.

It can't. It's not.

_Stop it. Stop letting this murderous urge get the better of you. It's controlling you. _

But it's so real. It seems like I could stoop over and grab the weapon. Lob it at my nearest opponent, and watch them fall.

But somehow, there's something in the back of my mind, the states, over and over, _It's simply a fantasy._

For the first time, I want to deny this being real. Deny that there is a dagger laid in front of me. For the first time, I feel just as afraid, just as doubtful as I once felt when I began training. I almost want to ignore the dagger, ignore the Cornucopia, and just run.

_Run._

_You could easily kill each and every one of your alliance. And why wait for the finale. They're threats now. Threats need to be eliminated, whether they be your own allies, or somebody you've never bothered to acknowledge._

* * *

_And such an instrument I was to use._  
_Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,  
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,_  
_And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,_

* * *

I was taught to kill. To spill blood. And now was the time to do so.

_You're a fool, Clove. Such a fool. The dagger is nonexistent. Your sight has been fooled by your other senses._

Or it was the only sense to trust.

_You're a prisoner in your own mind. _

_No. The dagger is your escape. Clutch it, feel the smooth surface of the blade. And put it to use._

Perhaps it is just an urge. Perhaps insanity.

Possibly both.

_No. You aren't insane. Every villain is the hero of their own story. Those who are truly insane don't know about their insanity. You're just as sane as everyone else._

_You're either going crazy, or getting sane. _

_It's there, Clove. You could see it. You can't deny what you've seen._

For the first time since arriving in the Capitol, I almost want to deny being in these games. Deny the dagger that has been laid in front of me. Not because I was hesitant to compete. But a strange tension began building up in my throat, and waves of nausea roll across my body. I exhale deeply, and suddenly, I come to an odd realization.

Anything, in just a matter of moments, would be a risk. Because there is no such thing as playing safe in the games. Everything would be a risk.

And for the first time, I feel as if I'm just as unprepared as any lower-class District. I'd be lying if I were to say I wasn't slightly afraid of death.

_You could do this. _

* * *

_Which was not so before. There's no such thing_

* * *

It's still there. It's there to be put to use, to carve through the flesh and muscle of my fellow tributes.

And abruptly, the gong sounds, breaking my thought process.

And I don't waste any time pouncing to the ground, scrambling to find my weapon.

* * *

**Heh, heh, I lied. HALF the Dagger speech, only cuz I can't get off my lazy ass. Oh well! So it was a bit confusing. Lemme explain Clove's thought process to you.**

**Basically, (like Macbeth) Clove is contemplating killing, and the risks she has to take, and whether its worth it or not. We don't know if the dagger is real or not, whether it is simply an illusion. (yea i probably missed something there, lolz) **

**Sooooo yeah. **

**OOH! And I forgot to mention:**

**The Dagger speech belongs to William Shakespeare.**

**Oh, I'm sorry, did I not speak loudly enough? I said,**

**THE DAGGER SPEECH BELONGS TO WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AND SO DOES MACBETH, MMKAY?**

**What did you think of this? **

**How could I improve?**

**Press that pretty little review button, Mmkay? :D**

**-Liv**


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